Unknown: Good Morning. This is Ms. Delores Douglas. I apologize in advance for this inconvenience. There has been a glitch in the campus server, and if you have received this message, I would appreciate you supplying me a copy of your current semester schedule. Please leave it in the yellow folder in front of my office with your name clearly printed at the top. Thank you.
Hey, I thought that sounded legit. Just to stack the deck against her, I sent the message to a couple cheerleaders and four of my random buddies from campus (non-football related). Someone had mentioned Ms. Douglas was at a seminar this week, so I knew no one would grab the schedules. No one but me.
Hightailing across campus, I made my way to the administration building and peeled off down one of the lesser-used hallways. Ms. Douglas’s office was in an isolated part of the building. Other professors wanted to avoid run-ins with their students, so they forced the guidance counselor to a vacant wing.
Before turning the corner, I heard Sydney’s voice. What is she still doing here?
“No, Allison, I refuse to DJ on a pink tablecloth. What is this, a baby shower? Should I play Yo Gabba Gabba for your sorority sisters?”
Peering around the corner, I could see Sydney on her cell, pacing in front of Ms. Douglas’s door. She walked to the folder I’d set out earlier today and flipped through the other envelopes.
Nosy, Sinister.
“What? And a big hell no, Allison. I will not wear pink and cream. You don’t dictate my clothing. … I don’t dress like a boy. …. Who cares if I wear makeup? Isn’t the point for you to get laid, not me? …. I don’t care if you add an extra hundred. I won’t be bought out like some hooker. … Hundred and fifty? Okay, fine, we have a deal.”
I sagged back against the wall, muffling my laughter. If this were an alternate universe, I’d think Sydney and I would get along just fine. Both stubborn with evil tendencies. This thought, which came out of left field, made me shudder. Sydney Porter had declared war by ruining my Porsche. No mercy would be given.
Heels clicked up the hallway, and I hid in a shadowy alcove. After waiting a minute, in the event she was waiting to lunge at me with a vinyl record shard, I rounded the corner toward Ms. Douglas’s office.
My plan was to tear the folder off the wall with the stealth of a ninja, but since it took me three tugs and I ripped a piece of paint up with it, I was pretty sure the scene was much more suave in my mind.
Once in the peaceful familiarity my car—which, thanks to Sinister, now smelled like musty tacos and had stains like a toddler peed all over it—I rummaged through the envelopes until I found one clearly marked Sydney Porter in perfect writing, because that’s what Ms. Douglas (wink-wink) asked for.
Dear Ms. Douglas,
Let me start by stating my concern with the lack of security related to classified files at Northern .
What a turd.
I think it would be wise to reassess your organizational protocol, or if this is truly software-related, reassess your choice of IT contractors. Despite this breach of confidentiality, I will oblige your request with my semester schedule provided below. Please call me when you receive this so we can discuss the university’s shortcomings and my disappointment in greater detail.
Sincerely,
Sydney Porter (Junior – Communications Major)
Schedule is as follows :
M/W 10-12PM: 306 Graphic Design, Communications Building - Prof. Thomas
M/W 1-3PM: 302 Sexual Evolution, Anthropology Building - Prof. Gratis
Mental note to add that one to my second semester schedule.
T/Th 10-1PM: 304 Geology: Why it Matters (It doesn’t), Natural Science Building - Prof. Cahill
T/Sun 5-9PM: Elective (Don’t ask, don’t tell policy on this one),Communications Building - Prof. Sinister
Prof. Sinister? Don’t ask, don’t tell policy? I felt like I was in Vegas and had just hit the jackpot. That was my ticket. Today was Tuesday and it was already five. So she’d be in her mystery elective.
Crossing campus, I tried to keep a low profile, but I was stopped twice by teammates and three times by chicks wondering where I was going. I never understood why people asked that when you’re obviously in a hurry. It’s nosy. Sometimes, I want to tell them I just ate a bean burrito and had a gambler coming on (side note: gambler is a sudden urge to use the restroom for an unsavory purpose. It’s a gamble because the odds aren’t great you’re going to make it in time).
In the communications building, I stood in front of the map, scoping out the layout. Classes didn’t usually extend after five at night, so the odds of roaming the halls and finding it were probably good. Unfortunately, when it comes to the suffocating walls of campus, I have little patience, so maybe staring at it some more would help.
“Can I help you?” A sweet voice came from behind me, and I whipped around. A full-figured girl with mousy brown hair and glasses approached my side. Hey, I wasn’t going to judge. I like a little meat in my hands.
“Yes, sugar.” Suddenly, I had a southern accent. Too many Matthew McConaughey movies. I almost started with, “All right, all right, all right.” She blushed, so my confidence in my southern drawl grew. “I know there’s a class here from five to nine, but I don’t have the actual room number. Can you help me out?”
She peered up at the building layout as if she were analyzing a murder scene. Closing one eye, she dragged her finger over the glass-encased map. Next, she swung her eyes to the building’s wall-mounted clock. Then she nodded, a knowing nod, as if the killer had been in front of us the entire time.
“No classes right now,” she said, eyes scanning my body while deep in thought. “But the radio station is at the top level. It runs twenty-four hours.”
“What station?”
“Duh, the campus radio station, KRUZ 97.4.” She said it like I was the last person on earth to hear this news. “It’s a pretty good station. Right now is the Sunday Lane segment. She’s hilarious.”
“Sunday Lane?”
“Yeah. Didn’t you notice half of the girls on campus were braless on Monday? She had a convincing hour-long segment on how bras were created by sadistic men. Men from the same genetic line who pressured Chinese women to bind their feet.”
Now that she mentioned it, I did notice that. Chance did too. He’d managed to turn the air-conditioning up in the Chemistry building just so he could find out who had the best nipples. Bailey Jenkins won ‘hands down’ he’d said.
Giving her a wide smile, I wrapped my arm around her shoulders. She trembled under the weight of my bicep, and I couldn’t help but let out an evil cackle. “Thank you. Thank you so very much. You’ve just made my day, darlin’.”
Chapter Seven
Mirrors are cruel inventions, aren’t they?
When I was younger, my mother would take me shopping, and I’d try on clothes in the stall with the most flattering mirror and the least amount of light. No one should look at you under fluorescent lights. Let me repeat myself: NO ONE. But every so often, you’d find that magic mirror, like it belonged in a fun house or something. It wasn’t the one that made you look like your head was about explode. It wasn’t the one showing hips that could cross continents. It was the one that made you look perfect. Or what you thought was as perfect as you can get.